The letter
by Elenluin
Summary: Imrahil receives the message from his brother-in-law that he has dreaded for many years. He has to try to find a way to deal with the grief he feels, new and old, while his duties demand his attention and his family needs him. - CH6- Dinner with the Steward
1. The message

Imrahil ignored the messenger and sat himself down in his chair, holding the letter in his trembling hands.

He had not expected an official missive from Gondor.

He had not expected a letter from his brother-in-law who never wrote anyway.

He had not expected this cold, factual message.

He stared at the window, but the rain made a hellish noise outside, and however much he tried, he could not see the sea. Even that comfort was withheld from him.

He crumbled the paper, tossed it into the fire with one well-aimed throw and turned back to the messenger. "You may leave."

The man nervously nodded and almost fled out of the room. For a moment, Imrahil felt guilty. It was not like him to annoy an innocent servant.

Before he could call him back to apologise, the man had disappeared though. Instead another head appeared around the corner of the heavy doors of his study. "Imrahil? Are you coming? Our guests are waiting?"

He tried to answer, but the words got stuck in his throat. He took a deep breath to steady himself and shook his head.

His wife slipped inside, letting the door fall shut behind her and she closed the distance between them. "What is wrong? You look as if you've seen a ghost. What did Denethor have to say? Don't tell me he is sending messages of doom again. Poor Finduilas. I told her last year when we visited, that man is a lost case. He keeps on ranting about how the dark lord will destroy us all. He should at least try to be more hopeful! If not for himself then for his wife and sons. He will make them all miserable if he continues like this. You at least shouldn't worry, dearest, you know better than to worry about his ramblings by now. He can be so gloomy!"

Imrahil helplessly moved his hand, and held her at an arms distance when she attempted to kiss him. She looked at him with wonder, but he could not explain. He just did not know how to start. Instead he rose and walked to the window. He rested his forehead against the thick glass and thought of the last time he had seen his sister and his brother-in-law.

He had visited Finduilas only six months ago. She had been frail and pale, but that was nothing unusual, and the hopelessness he had seen in her eyes for so long had somewhat subdued. It looked like she was finding peace at last and becoming stronger again after all these years of illness. Her boys had kept him busy while he had been there, and while he played with Boromir and little Faramir, he had seen the love and even joy in her eyes. He had left with a feeling of optimism, she was becoming happier now that her boys were growing.

He jolted as Niluphel embraced him from behind and laid her head against his back. "Imrahil?" she whispered, her worry clearly shining through her words. "Why won't you speak to me? What is wrong, my love?"

He scraped his throat and forced the words out. "Finduilas. She's…."

But before he could finish, before he could find the words, Niluphel interrupted him, as she always did, finishing his sentences for him.

"Is she ill again? Your father has just sent a message that he won't attend the banquet. I guess he got a message too. He must be very worried. He requests you to take his place, so it will be up to us again then to entertain the guests. Luckily Elphir is finally asleep. Did you see how he manages to stand up alone now? Soon he will let go of the tables and chairs and start to walk on his own! The nurse says he is so strong for his age!"

He let his wife ramble on. She meant well. So it would be up to him to host the guests, wonderful. Adrahil probably had assumed that his son was still blissfully unaware of what had passed, or he would not have made his request to replace him at the banquet.

Grimly Imrahil thought that Denethor had many flaws, but his brother-in-law had always recognised and respected the close bond that he shared with Finduilas. Even if it was nothing more than a cold, factual message, he still appreciated the thought that Denethor had spared him in these difficult times. He did not blame him for the tone of the letter. Who knew what his own reaction would be in a similar situation, perhaps it would not be so different from Denethor's.

He felt Niluphel's warm arms around him and the feeling of her voice vibrating against his back calmed him. It was soothing to have her so close. "Did you hear Hirluin has not brought his lady? They say he has delayed marrying her now that his father has passed away. Apparently that young fool thinks that it is not appropriate to be happy in such times. Can't you talk to him? You should tell him that his father will not come back even if Hirluin sacrifices his happiness!"

Hirluin the fair. Imrahil shook his head, half in reply to his wife. He would not interfere, he simply felt not up to it today, but she was right, his friend did not deserve to be dismissed. He would get a decent welcome. Especially now that he had inherited the lordship of Pinnath Gelin. Dol Amroth would not slight its closest neighbour by not being a proper host.

It was a prince's duty to tuck his feelings safely away and play his role. Hirluin too had understood that part.

Imrahil squared his shoulders and gently undid his wife's hands from around his waist. Turning towards her, he laid a finger on her lips. "Hush, let us go now. I'll tell you about the message later."

She smiled her radiant smile, and he softly kissed her lips. She did not half realise how much he loved her. She playfully slapped his shoulder and held his hand, pulling him with her out of the room.

For less than a second, he resisted her pull and met his own face in the small mirror that hung next to the door. He quickly wiped away the tear that had appeared against his will. There would be time for grieving later.

He had not expected a letter from his brother-in-law.

He had not expected to read that Finduilas had died.


	2. Adrahil

Imrahil managed to get through the banquet. He smiled when he had to, he even made some sharp retorts when Hirluin challenged him, but afterwards, he could barely remember what they had talked about.

When the dancing started, he squeezed his wife's hand, and told her that he would go see to his father. An understanding look in her eyes, she sent him off with a kiss and assured him she would take care of the guests if needed.

He walked through the long corridors that separated him from his parents' rooms. It was still raining, and the whole stronghold felt damp and chilly, even if it wasn't that cold outside. He wondered if in Gondor too the rain was pouring down as if there would be no tomorrow.

He did not meet a single soul on his way to his father's quarters. There were no guards in the palace of Dol Amroth, unlike in the Gondorian citadel. There were no guards anywhere in the city. Why would there be? Here all eyes were set on the sea. Their defences were set up to keep the enemy out, not to keep an eye on the citizens inside.

The people of the Falas valued their freedom, and even if there was an occasional spy that got through because of that, they thought that the chance of living a life free of restrictions and fear was well worth the risk.

Perhaps that was exactly why Finduilas had been so unhappy in that beautiful, splendid, enclosed city that Gondor was with its many circles of defence. She needed space, room to wander, to feel free. If only she had not fallen in love with Denethor… He supressed the thought. It was too late for that now.

With a brief knock, he announced his presence. It was late, but he did not think his father would be asleep.

When he was met with silence, he knocked again and tried to push the door. It was firmly locked, yet he did not doubt that his father was inside. "Open up. I want to speak to you."

"Not now Imrahil." The sound was muffled, but he could hear the strain in his father's voice.

He bit his lip. "Please. I too received word from Gondor. Let me in. I need to see you. Please."

A click of the door answered his plea. The first thing he saw was his father's bent back as he did not even wait for him to follow. Softly he closed the door. He fumbled with the catch, but his hands were trembling and exasperated, he left it undone. He followed Adrahil to the next room and sat himself down across him. There was a bottle of strong liquor on the table, but the glass that was poured out seemed untouched.

"So everyone knows." His father said. "How did the guests react?"

Imrahil hid his head in his hands and corrected his father. " _I_ know. No one else does. I couldn't tell Niluphel when we still had to host Hirluin. She might suspect something, but she doesn't know and neither do the guests." He took a deep breath. "You taught me that, remember? Duty first."

"I remember it now." Adrahil whispered, defeated. "I'm sorry I didn't earlier this evening. I'm sorry I left you all alone with the guests, I wasn't aware you too had gotten a message."

Imrahil moved his head up with a jolt and looked straight into his father's clear grey eyes. "Please, I did not mean it like that. It was not meant to be an accusation. Fin wouldn't have wanted me to neglect my duties."

"And neither would she have wanted me to do the same." Adrahil sighed and averted his eyes.

"Did you get any details on what happened?" Somehow it was important to know. To know if his sister had suffered, or had just quietly gone out like a candle. To know if his father had gotten a more elaborate letter from Denethor perhaps. To know how her family was doing there in Gondor.

His father shook his head and pushed a peace of crumpled paper towards him. "No, all I have is this."

Imrahil took it and saw that it was an almost exact copy of the letter that he had thrown into the fire. " _Denethor II,_ _The Steward of the white city greets the Prince of Dol_ _Amroth. It is with pain in my heart that I need to inform you that the fair lady Finduilas_ _has_ _passed away last night. We will ensure that she receives the highest possible honour on her last journey, and we bid you to come and say your farewells at your earliest convenience. Please accept my deepest condolences."_

Now that he read it again in a quieter frame of mind, Imrahil realised that it wasn't such a cold message after all. It were simply the words of a man who did not know how to bring such news to the family of his wife. Perhaps he did Denethor injustice. Perhaps it was time to admit that his brother-in-law had loved his sister above all else in this world.

"He could have been more specific." He said after a long silence and he realised how hoarse his voice sounded, and how hollow his words. "He could at least have told us what happened."

"We will know soon enough. I have requested the stablemaster to prepare everything. I will leave at first light." Adrahil answered.

"I still have a few hours to prepare, I will be there."

His father sighed. "We cannot leave the city without a leader. You know that. One of us has to stay, and you have Elphir and Niluphel to take care of."

He dug his nails in the palms of his hands. "You will not leave me behind."

"I will." Adrahil said again, sad but determined. "You will stay and lead the council while I am in Gondor. Ivriniel will join me instead. It is your duty, as it is mine to accompany my daughter to her last resting place."

Imrahil straightened himself to his full height and focussed on relaxing his clenched fists. He willed his anger and grief away, and tried to clear his mind. He felt a fire burning inside that he had not felt for a long time. "Very well, but you will promise me that you will return within the month. I will go to Gondor when you are back. Denethor will need me more than you do."

His father bowed his head, and Imrahil caught a glimpse of the tears that streaked his cheeks. "You underestimate how important you are to me, my son. If there was another way, I would not have separated our family thus at a time like this. It will pain me to know that you will leave when I return, but I suspect that you are right, and this too I suspect: that your stay will be longer than I would like it to be. Denethor will indeed need you there and Boromir and Faramir…."

Imrahil rose with a start. He did not want to think of his nephews just yet. They were far too young.

As he had been.

"Niluphel will be waiting for me, father. I'll have to go back and bring her the news. Have a safe journey, and I'll be waiting for your return."

He did not dare look back as he left Adrahil behind, the sight of his heart-broken father would simply be too much for his already feeble self-control.

He fled through the corridors, back to his own apartment, where he was greeted by a broadly smiling Niluphel as soon as he opened the door.

She took one look at his face and rushed towards him, embracing him tightly. "Imrahil, she's not just sick is she? Is she..."

He nodded and could no longer hold back his tears.

Niluphel held him even tighter and started rubbing circles on his back. He wrapped his arms around her, leaning his chin on her head. "We will have to stay here, my love. Father will go."

"Oh!" she looked up into his face, and he saw surprise make way for indignation and then acceptance. With Niluphel, you always knew right what she was thinking. It was why he loved her so.

"I will go to Gondor as soon as he returns. Denethor and the children will need me."

"But Elphir? It is a long journey."

He could see her hesitate and kissed her forehead. "You can stay here, there is no need to travel with a small child. Let me do this alone."

"We will see." She whispered, and he knew she was thinking as much on how lonely it would be for her and the child, as she was worried about him.

He nodded and felt weariness overcome him, now that things finally settled in. Quietly he went to his bed, appreciating that Niluphel did not even try to continue the conversation.

He did not sleep well that night though. He found himself waking many times through the night, always afraid that he would miss his father's departure.

When sunrise came, it almost felt like a relief. He watched the small convoy go, while messages were spread through the castle of the demise of the lady Finduilas. It would fall to him to receive the many condolences that would doubtlessly reach the castle in the following days.

With an outwardly appearance of determination that he did not entirely feel inside, he made his way to the council room and sat down in his father's chair, ready to perform his duty as the heir of the prince of Dol-Amroth.


	3. Journey to the White City

The repetitive motion of his horse felt comfortably numbing. He kept quiet and let his mind wander, his three companions equally silent.

It had been many years since he had first travelled to Gondor, but everything reminded him of that journey.

It had been a difficult time. He had barely turned eighteen and though he had once been a well-educated child, at that time he was nothing more than a rogue.

His father had had been lecturing him for months that passing his time on the Swan Ships was not befitting for a prince. He needed to start spending his evenings learning about the politics in the capital instead of drinking the night away with his fellow sailors, he had to start looking for a bride. Imrahil had not listened, and had continued to do as he pleased. At one point, his father had lost his patience and decided that it was high time that his heir joined life at court in Gondor. Within weeks, arrangements had been made with Ecthelion, and Imrahil had been sent off to Gondor, away from all the things that kept him from becoming a proper crown prince of Dol Amroth, or so his father had thought.

He smiled at the memory. At the time, he thought that Adrahil had not understood why he sought out the danger of fighting the corsairs, he thought that he had hidden his pain from his father. What a young fool he had been.

In those years he had left Dol Amroth with a mixture of dread and grief, though the dread had been reserved for what was before him, and the grief for what he left behind.

It was the other way around now, but the feelings were the same.

He remembered that he had been so preoccupied during that journey that he had almost killed his horse because he had thoughtlessly driven it to exhaustion.

Oh. He focussed his attention on his surroundings . His companions were far behind and there was foam around his stallion's mouth. He sighed, reigning him in to a calm trot.

The agitated movements of the horse's flanks slowly fell into a calmer rhythm.

When his companions caught up with him, he did not speak and decided to ignore their half-hidden questioning glances. Instead, he increased his pace again and rode ahead of their small group. He did not care for what his companions would think of him. They were free to discuss what had happened. He did not care for their gossip.

When they made their camp, he could no longer avoid them though. Yet they left them alone. They did not mention his little escapade and did not even flinch when he only replied their more practical questions with one-syllable words.

Even on these quiet and safe roads, they had decided to keep watch. Out of precaution, or perhaps even just out of habit, they had split the hours of the night between them. He wrapped himself in his mantle after dinner, and withdrew from the fire to start his vigil. Listening for any noise that was out of the ordinary, he stared at the night sky and his thoughts started to wander once more.

He still did not know how she had died.

Had she suffered? Had she been in pain? Was it something that had happened to her, an illness perhaps, or had she chosen her own fate, as he so long had feared she might?

He had not asked his father. Doubtlessly Adrahil had found out exactly what had happened during his stay in Gondor. However, he had found he couldn't. He would not make his father's grief worse than it already was by questioning him. He would find out for himself. He would form his own opinion on why his brother-in-law had not managed to hold up to his promise of keeping her safe. He could not let his fear rule him.

He cursed the cold and stormy weather of the last weeks, which had prevented him from travelling by ship, as he normally would. He still liked the work aboard, how it was never quiet, how one was always busy when awake.

Hours passed and instead of waking Tadion as he was supposed to do when his vigil was over, he remained quietly seated just outside the circle of fire. His companions could use their rest, and he would not sleep tonight in any case.

Just before first light, he rose, his muscles stiff from being seated in the same position all night. He stared at his sleeping companions, and felt guilt wash over him. They did not deserve to suffer his abominable mood. Even though he suspected they understood, he should try to at least be grateful that they had decided to accompany him. It had enabled him to avoid a much larger, much more formal escort. Tadion, Cerndir, Erebon. All three had been by his side since that first journey East, now nearly fifteen years ago.

They hit the road again without bothering to prepare breakfast. They were very close to the White City, and none of them seemed overly hungry.

"Milord, we will reach the plains soon." It was the first thing Cerndir had said to him since he had ignored his well-meaning attempt at conversation a few days before.

He nodded and forced himself to give a proper answer. "Ride ahead and notify the steward of our arrival. Tell him we will enter the city around the fifth hour. I want to make a detour before I join him in the citadel."

Cerndir clucked his tongue and spurred on his horse. Imrahil watched him go, and for a fleeting moment, wished that he could go after him.

What he would give to recklessly ride through the plains, enjoying the feeling of the wind through his hair – or better even, to sail the seas again and to fearlessly climb the highest mast.

He sighed. Those joys were now beyond him, he had a family to take care of, and a duty to fulfil.

The white walls of mighty Minas Tirith could be seen from afar, but he left the main road some time before they reached the gates, and directed his horse to an enclosed field just outside the first circle. At the simple metal gate, he left his horse with his remaining companions. The field was mossy and wet, the flowers that would grow here in summer long gone. He wandered through the field, trying to read the markings on the unobtrusive stones that lay spread out before him, one next to the other, all in neat rows, until he found the one that he was looking for.

Finduilas had not gotten a place in Rath Dínen, instead she had been buried with the commoners.

It was just like her to want something so outlandish. A princes of her people, a well-loved wife, a high-born lady, who still had been adamant that she did not want to be buried within those cold stone walls. She had been a rogue at heart, just like her brother.

Suddenly he realised something.

He closed his eyes and listened to the wind. Faintly, he could hear a gull's cry and if he focussed, he could smell a wisp of salt in the air.

Imrahil smiled and fought back the tears that threatened to fall. Why had she not returned to them before it was too late? Why had she stayed here in this city where she wasted away? He knew the answer to those questions, yet he wanted to hear the truth with his own ears, see it with his own eyes.

He left the cemetery and found Tadion and Erebon patiently waiting with his horse. He was grateful for their quiet presence. Together they rode through the streets of Minas Tirith and his thoughts wandered off again while he made his way up, crossing circle by circle. Somehow he had wished it to rain today, but instead, for the first time in weeks, there was an infuriating blue sky. How could the very air be so merry while so many people hurt inside. On his way up, he ignored the stares of the people in the streets. Three swan knights riding through the city were bound to draw attention. He pretended not to see how they whispered, pointing at him. It mattered not.

He left his horse- and his companions – at the sixth level. There was a guardhouse there, and they would be well-taken care off. Access to the citadel was reserved to only those who had an appointment with the steward. The guard of the Citadel let him through without even as much as a question. Without haste, he made his way to the upper level. He knew every stone, every crack here, but every time he entered the Place of the Fountain, the sight of the white tree left him in awe.

"Until the King returns." He murmured to himself, and smiled sadly. Finduílas had believed that prophecy. She had often said that she too was waiting for the King to return, just like the tree. She had hated it that Denethor worked so much. His duties had taken him away from her far too often, and somehow she had hoped that if the King would return, he would be free to stay with her.

Imrahil slowly walked towards the gates of the citadel, and steeled himself. Denethor would surely be receiving petitioners at this hour. All he had to do was to announce himself to his brother-in-law and he would be free to search for the boys. After all, they were the main reason why he had come.


	4. Minas Tirith

Imrahil removed his helmet and tucked it under his arm as he approached the magnificent doors of the throne room of Minas Tirith. He knew the herald well. He knew nearly every captain, every soldier of the Guard, and they knew him. He hated the looks he had gotten while striding through the hallways. Half of the soldiers had been curious, the other half – the worse half – had watched him with pity in their eyes. The herald was one of the latter ones, and hastily bowed as soon as Imrahil approached. "Milord, we had word that you would not arrive for some time yet."

He smiled faintly "I finished my errand earlier than expected. If you will announce me to the Steward, I would be most grateful."

The man nodded and disappeared behind the thick doors. It did not take very long before they swung open and Imrahil was allowed in.

His footsteps rang on the marble floor as he approached the steward. Denethor was sitting in his chair as was his habit, but to Imrahil's surprise there were very few councillors around. Normally the hall would be bustling with people at this time of the day. Supplicants from the city bringing their cases before the steward, merchants requesting permission to put up their stalls within the city walls, emissaries from the provinces. Normally they all gathered here in this grand hall, but not today it seemed. Today the hall was empty but for a few men, whom Imrahil recognised as Denethor's most trusted advisors.

He stood before the empty throne and bowed his head in respect towards the steward. "My liege. I have come."

Denethor rose from his chair. He looked younger than his fifty-eight winters still, no doubt thanks to the strength of his Numenorean blood, but when Imrahil met his grey, usually so vivid and piercing eyes and saw nothing there but a dullness that he had not expected, he realised that at this time, in this place, the steward was feeling his years weigh upon him.

With two large steps Denethor closed the gap between them, and embraced him.

Imrahil froze for a moment at the unexpected gesture. Then he too wrapped his arms around his brother-in-law. For a long moment they held each other in a tight grip. "How are the you?" It was only a whisper, not loud enough for the councillors to hear.

An almost imperceivable shake of the steward's head told him all he needed to know. A little louder, he continued on a safer subject, "How are Boromir and Faramir, milord?"

Denethor released his grip. "You will see for yourself. I sent word to them that you were on your way. They will no doubt be happy to see you." He smiled, but he did not fool Imrahil, his eyes remained as dull as they had been before.

Imrahil nodded. "I will find them right away, unless you require my presence here, milord?"

The steward shook his head and walked back to his chair. "Not for now, there are a few things I would like to discuss with you, but not now. I'd much prefer you go to my sons first. Will you join me for dinner this evening in my private quarters?"

"Gladly. I would just like to refresh and remove this armour and visit the boys. Send me word there when you expect me."

"Very well. Your usual room has been prepared for you. Be welcome here, Imrahil of Dol Amroth."

Imrahil curtly bowed to the advisors still surrounding the steward's chair and strode out of the room again. He did not get, nor need, an escort to his quarters. Even nearly a decade after leaving the citadel, the rooms he had stayed in for so many years were still kept for him. It was odd to consider that he had spent nearly a third of his life here. Now, he thought not without bitterness, he almost wished that he had left the city after he had earned his knighthood.

His father had wanted him to return, but he had stayed to fight by the legendary Thorongil's side. If not for his prolonged stay, Finduílas and Denethor might have never fallen in love. She had been sent by his father to convince him to return home, but instead she had been the one to permanently mover to Gondor. Perhaps she would have had a different life if he her younger brother had been a more obedient son in those days. Perhaps she would have led a happier life, home in the Falas. He knew it was a foolish thought. Adrahil would have married her off to another noble lord, and she would have never stayed in Dol Amroth. Such was the fate of women after all. She could have done far worse than Denethor whom she loved deeply.

Denethor.

He did not know what he had expected of this meeting with his brother-in-law, but certainly not this. Denethor had never been one to give in to his emotions, and his open display of affection worried Imrahil more than a cold reception would have. The stern steward of Gondor had only ever shown his softer side when Finduílas was in the room.

He rounded a corner and supressed his worry for his brother in law. The boys would have to come first. One of the few things he had heard from Adrahil was that little Faramir was taking his mother's death particularly badly. He would have to figure out a way of helping his nephews, there was simply no other choice.

With a sigh, Imrahil entered his room, and found his sparse luggage already there, as well as a page to attend to his needs.

"Sir, I have been assigned to you, and will gladly assist you during your stay." The lad was about twelve, well on his way to becoming a squire, and clearly nervous in the presence of such a high-ranking nobleman.

Imrahil was careful to keep a smile on his face. The boy did not need to suffer his foul mood. "Thank you. What is your name?"

"Beregond, sir"

'Very well, Beregond, will you help me out of my armour please? I have been on a long journey."

"Yes sir. I will, and if I it pleases you sir, a basin with hot water has been prepared as well. Gisella said all lords need water and soap after so many days on the road, sir." The little one straightened his back under his approving gaze and Imrahil felt his own smile become more genuine by the minute.

"And who is Gisella, and why is she concerned with what lords need?"

The boy flushed bright red, "Gisella is one of the maids sir, and she says all men, even lords, stink of horses after a long journey."

Imrahil could not help laughing out loud. "She is right. Now help me undo these straps, before the water cools. I would like to go to my nephews."

With the help of Beregond, he quickly managed to change into some more comfortable clothes. He had left the usual blue and silver of Dol Amroth behind, and instead had chosen a grey tunic, discreetly embroidered with silver swan ships on the cuffs, the only sign of his rank and title. While Beregond was fastening his belt and lacing his boots, he threw a glance through the window and realised the rain now had reached the city. His mind wandered to another time, when his father had made his sisters and him dress all in black for months, when all laughter was quickly hushed, when he had regularly escaped the palace just to run towards the sea, rain or no, to shout out his anger at what had happened. He could only hope the boys were taking the loss of their mother better than he had.

* * *

 _Back after a long hiatus on this one, and this time I do intend to finish the story..._


	5. Nephews

Imrahil pushed the door open that led to the boys' room and was almost immediately knocked back into the hallway by the sheer force with which Boromir ran into him.

"Uncl'Imrahil!"

All he could see was a wild bush of brown hair as his nephew fiercely embraced him. Imrahil suppressed a sigh and rubbed the boy's back. "I'm here, I'm here. All will be fine." He sank to his knees, carefully removing Boromir's arms from his waist. "I'm here." He whispered again as he brushed away the tears from his nephew's cheeks.

The boy visibly fought to find his composure, half a sob still escaping despite his efforts. "Mama…"

"I know, I know." Imrahil pulled him closer again, as much to hide the fading of his own resolve as for comforting Boromir. A discrete cough made him look up and he saw a middle-aged lady standing at the other side of the room, little Faramir, barely five years old, in her arms. He did not know her, Denethor must have hired her recently to care for the boys.

He rose and walked towards them, his arm still tightly wrapped around Boromir, his hand firmly on his little shoulder.

"Milord." She managed to courtesy with the boy still in her arms. "The lord Steward sent word that we were to expect a visitor. I was just planning to let the little ones eat. If you wish, food and drinks for you will be served as well. The cook always overdoes it, it is no trouble at all."

Imrahil nodded, afraid that she would continue talking if he did not react. "Yes please." He had not bothered with breakfast, but now he was hungry, despite everything.

Faramir was watching him. As soon as the boy's big grey eyes met his own gaze, two little hands were stretched out and he had to let go of Boromir for a moment to accept his smallest nephew into his arms.

"How is he, milady?"

The lady smiled, "Ioreth, please call me Ioreth. He is fine lord, though he misses his mama almost as much as his big brother. You know, I told my sister, I hope the steward finds a new wife soon, no offence lord, but these boys need a mother. No man should care for children alone. It is a good thing he asked me to…"

Imrahil mustered all his self-control. Finduílas had been dead for barely two months and here she was talking about replacing her. He managed not to shout, but it took significant effort. "Thank you for your advice Ioreth. Today I will take care of these boys, alone, even though I am only a man. Please notify the cook that we would like to eat. I will have no further need of your service."

Ioreth turned bright red and for a moment, he thought she was going to protest. Then she turned on her heals and disappeared as soon as she could.

Imrahil tried to smile at his nephews. Boromir had somehow gotten hold of his hand again, and Faramir lent his face against his shoulder. Carefully Imrahil set him down next to his brother. He hesitated a moment, then embraced them both.

"Will you stay with us now, uncl'Imrahil? Will you take care of us? Will Aunt Niluphel come too? When will we leave for Belfalas? We will go live with you, right?" Boromir looked at him with a hopeful look in his eyes.

"No, little one. Aunt Niluphel stayed with Elphir. We will stay here for now. Your papa needs you too, you know."

The boy drew himself loose with an angry look on his face and crossed his small arms in defiance. "You promised last time, you promised I could come and live with you soon. Mama said you always keep your promises."

Imrahil, still down on one knee, rubbed his forehead. He was touched by the faith his sister had had in him, but right now, he wished she had not. "I know we agreed with your father that you would become a page in my service, but now, with your mama gone…"

"She said you would come to take care of us." It was Faramir who spoke so quietly that Imrahil doubted if he had understood right.

"Did she." He murmured in return.

"Why did you take so long? Grandfather came."

Faramir looked at him with those piercing grey eyes so much like his mother's and Imrahil found he lacked the strength to withstand the gaze of a five-year old boy. He turned his head and tried to focus on still-angry Boromir while he answered. "I had to stay in Dol Amroth. Surely your father has taught you both that one cannot forsake his duties so easily. When the Prince of Dol Amroth is absent, someone has to take care of the people. Grandfather Adrahil asked me to do so in his stead, while he was here, with you. I came as soon as he returned."

Boromir looked sceptic. "I do not believe you. There was no ship, so you travelled by land. You should not have arrived for at least two or three more days. Grandfather took much longer to get here."

The boy had grown a lot since Imrahil had last seen him. At times like these, it made him wonder what kind of adult he would become. He tried to smile, even if his heart was not in it. "You would be right, if I had travelled with a large escort, and if I had made camp every night. I _should_ have taken much longer, but it seems that I did not. You will learn this in time, Boromir. When there is need for speed, you go with a few trusted companions and you drive yourself, and your horse, to the limit. Especially when you know that a table filled with food is waiting for you at your destination, as it is for me now. Let us eat first. You can tell me what you want to do this afternoon. I rode hard to get here but I plan to stay for a good long while."

Boromir nodded, but Imrahil did not miss that he refused to take his hand when they walked to the table. The boy was still angry with him.

The food was excellent, as always in Minas Tirith, and it was a pleasure to see Boromir and Faramir devour the soft bread and cold meat. Imrahil watched them eat, while he swirled the wine in his cup. He would have to talk to Denethor about Boromir. He indeed urgently needed to start his training as a page. It had been Finduílas who had delayed his departure for Dol Amroth. She had not wanted him to leave her side, and had convinced her husband and her brother both that there would be plenty of time if Boromir would leave after the winter that had proven to be her last. It made Imrahil wonder if she had known that she was dying, if he had missed something else the last time he had visited. She had seemed lively and even happy back then…"

"is that not so Uncl'Imrahil?"

He looked up and forced his thoughts back to the here and now, "I'm sorry Boromir, I did not hear your question."

"Faramir is afraid that he will get sick again once we get on a ship to Dol Amroth, but Mama said that even you got sick on your first journey, but that it never stopped you. She told us that you fought the corsairs with Captain Thorongil. Is it true Uncl'Imrahil? Did you know him?" Two pairs of grey eyes stared at him, clearly eager to hear a story or two.

Imrahil smiled. "I did know him once, yes, and I was indeed sick, Faramir." He ruffled the boy's hair. "It passes after a while, you get used to the eternal movement of the water. I'm sure your mother greatly exaggerated our adventures. I spent months guarding the coastline, before we attacked Umbar. She always was a gifted storyteller." He could not keep the melancholy out of his voice. With a deep breath, he shoved his chair back from the table. "Are you both finished? Let's go to the courtyard and show me how much you've learned since I've last seen you two."

The rain had subsided and Imrahil spent his afternoon outside with the boys. Sword practice and riding lessons and even playing hide-and-seek with Faramir. Imrahil was pleased with both of his nephews' progress, but above all else he was glad for the distraction.

When the time came to get ready for dinner, he left his charges with Ioreth, who had clearly found out whom she had before her. She bowed deeply once she saw him approach, and profusely apologised for her insensitive behaviour. He smiled at her, and reassured her that no offense was taken. She was a good woman, he did not doubt that, and she cared deeply for Faramir and Boromir.

He himself went back to his room. He wanted nothing more than to throw himself on his bed and rest, but as he entered, he found Beregond waiting for him with a message from Denethor that he was expected for dinner in half an hour. He sent the young page away and quickly washed his face. He was tired, very much so, but the day was not done yet, and he would have to face his brother-in-law first. Perhaps it was for the best. He had a few questions that otherwise would have kept him awake regardless of his tiredness.

On his way to the steward's quarters, those same questions tumbled through his head again.

Why had Denethor not sent for him before it was too late?

Why had he not sent Finduílas home?

What had happened to her?


	6. Dinner with the Steward

Imrahil laid down his knife with a careful gesture and looked at Denethor across the table. He caught his brother-in-law staring at his own plate. The food had not been to blame, but neither of them had eaten much. He shoved back his chair, and quietly spoke: "Perhaps we should take our wine and move to your study?"

Denethor looked up and gave a barely perceivable nod.

As they rose, Imrahil tried to ignore the empty chair next to him while the steward called for a servant to clear the table. Denethor had not glanced across the table during dinner, and he had not looked to his left, and both had perfectly known why.

Not even eight months ago, he had been seated at his sister's right hand. It had been one of the countless evenings the three of them had spent at this table, conversing deep into the night. She would smile when Denethor and he moved plates and cutlery to the side, using the fruit basket, the flowers and the other decorations for mapping out the movements of the troops in and around Ithilien. On those nights, she would gently direct the conversation to other, lighter topics, trying, and often succeeding, to divert their minds from the war at least for a short while.

He pushed away the memory and followed his brother-in-law to the study that he knew almost as well as his own. The pain he felt when faced with her empty seat would be nothing compared to Denethor's grief. He was here to help him, not to wallow in his own sadness. Distractedly, he let his hand dwell along the backs of the poetry volumes that stood on the shelve near the entrance of the study. There were quite a few that he recognised from his father's collection. It had been another vain attempt of Adrahil to cheer up his daughter.

"She liked those books." Denethor said.

"Did she?" Imrahil faintly smiled. "I rarely saw her sit down and read before she moved here." His voice dwindled as he spoke. "When mother died, Ivriniel had to assist father, while Finduílas would be tasked with looking after me. Most of her youth was spent watching over a mischievous boy, who tried to escape her supervision continuously." He carefully took out a rather thin volume with a dark blue cover and flipped it open. The Lay of Nimrodel. Finduilas always requested this song from the wandering minstrels that passed at their father's court. She was -had been- a hopeless romantic.

"You know, she told me a different story." Denethor's rough voice startled him, and he looked closer at his brother-in-law, while he put the book back where it belonged. "She said that you had been the one that kept her going, little as you might have been. That you fled to the sea whenever you could, was something she understood."

He shook his head, "I will not deny that she was as restless as I was, but things were easier for me. I was only eleven, and no one expected me to take any responsibility for my actions. She was sixteen, and deemed too old for such foolishness."

"Eleven…" Denethor sounded pensive. "I need to hear your opinion, Imrahil. Many people are counselling me on what to do with my sons. My advisors tell me to send them away to safety, wherever that exists in this world, to Rohan or beyond. Not to mention that I can almost hear Finduilas' ladies-in-waiting whispering behind my back that I should find a new wife to care for them. A few of the more impertinent lords have already offered their daughters to come care for the boys. I doubt that they have my sons' best interest in mind though." As usual, there was little to be read from Denethor's face, but Imrahil remembered his encounter with Ioreth earlier, and nodded in sympathy.

The steward took a deep breath, as if to steady himself, even if he still looked unmoved. "What do you think? What would she have wanted me to do?"

Imrahil did not answer immediately. Instead he walked over to the window. It faced East. It faced the threat that forever was on their minds, even on sad days like these.

"How did she die?" He knew he wasn't answering the question.

"Your father didn't tell you."

"I barely spoke to him, I left as soon as he arrived." He did not tell how he had been pacing the ramparts of the Dol Amroth castle every single day while his father was in Gondor. How he had wished to be at sea. His ship had been ready to depart, but the foul winds had messed up his plan. When his father finally returned, he had been far too impatient to wait until the weather turned again and had taken his horse instead. Boromir had not been wrong, it had been a wild ride. In all probability, Adrahil would demand an apology as soon as he would be back in Dol Amroth, and Imrahil feared that he would not be the only one requesting an explanation. He had left Niluphel without much of a goodbye. He had acted like his seventeen-year old self once again, rash and wild, and he hated himself for it.

"I find it difficult to…." His brother-in-law's voice brought him back to the present.

"How did she die, Denethor. Tell me."

Finally Denethor rose and came to stand next to him. "She caught a cold. At first, I wasn't too worried. As you had already seen in spring, she was happy. She came out of the summer much stronger than the year before. I thought we had finally overcome her illness."

Imrahil bowed his head. It seemed that he had not been the only one who had been fooled into thinking that his sister was finally healing. Ever since her death, he had doubted himself, thinking that in all probability he no longer had seen her clearly, that he had been a fool to believe in this dream of her healing. He was glad to know that Denethor, who had been so close to her, had been fooled too.

The steward stayed silent for a while, and Imrahil patiently waited for the steward to find the right words again.

"The cold improved at first, but when she kept coughing for a month or so after, things took a turn for the worse." Denethor stepped forward and clenched the windowsill tightly for support. "The weather was still and misty in October, no rain for weeks and barely any wind, the only breeze coming from the East, from there." Another pause as they both stared in the direction of Minas Morghul, its threatening shadow far too close to be comfortable. "She could not breathe, Imrahil. All the time she complained that the dust from the Eastern plains was preventing her to breathe. She coughed and coughed, and sometimes panic overcame her... us... that she would suffocate. I would have sent her to you then. I swear." Denethor turned, and Imrahil was taken aback by the forlorn expression on his brother-in-law's otherwise so unmoved face. "I thought the sea-air might cure her, or comfort her at least, but she already was too weak. She barely could make it from her chair to her bed at that time. I feared the journey would be the death of her. Now I think I should have let her go. At least then she would have been able to see her beloved sea again. Perhaps I should have sent her home much earlier, maybe then she would not have been so ill at all."

Imrahil laid his hand on the steward's shoulder, firmly supressing his own emotions. "There is nothing you could have done to prevent this. We have offered her that choice countless times before, remember? She never changed her answer, she always chose to stay by your side. From the moment she bound her fate to yours, she knew her future would lie in Minas Tirith, and she gladly consented to that. She loved you, my brother."

"Perhaps. I just wish that things had been different."

Denethor did not move from his spot, and Imrahil just sighed as he squeezed the steward's shoulder. "You made her happy, Denethor, never doubt that."

They stood together in silence for a long time, watching the dark plume that was barely discernible at the horizon.

"The threat remains and so I have to decide what to do with my sons. Boromir, he is a brave and brazen lad, always eager to practice his sword skills. I fear the day on which he will need those skills, but at least he will be prepared. Faramir. He is too serious, Imrahil. When Boromir was his age, Finduílas constantly had to care for scraped knees and scratched arms. But Faramir, he hardly leaves his room. All he does is pestering his tutors to teach him how to read properly, and if he dwells in the garden at all, we find him sitting in one or the other tree, listening to the song of the birds."

Imrahil sadly smiled, "I remember Lord Ecthelion telling stories of how his son was ever engrossed in a book during his childhood. Perhaps it is not such a bad thing to have a calm, studious son. I for one am certain that my father would have preferred me to be such a boy."

Denethor now turned to him. "Times have changed. You of all people should know that they will not have the luxury of growing up in peace. We do not need bookish youngsters, we need men who can fight, who can hold their own. We will not always be around to protect them."

"I do know that." Imrahil was dead-serious when he answered, "but if I can spare them from the cruelties of war for a good while longer, I will. Faramir is only five years old, he is scared and alone. What he needs now is a quiet place to grow, with his family close to him. Even Boromir is still very young, both of them need to be able to live in peace for a while."

"It is not possible." Denethor nodded towards the threatening tower at the horizon. "As long as Minas Morghul stands, there will be no peace."

Imrahil bowed his head and stared at his hands. "Peace can be found even in the most difficult of times. I do not know how Ecthelion acted with you, but I know for a fact that my father kept the true extent of the war hidden from us for a long time. He tried to protect us, and our childhood was largely carefree. It wasn't until…" He bit his lip and hesitated. "until the corsairs reached Dol Amroth in his absence and attacked us unaware that I realised how blind I had been."

Denethor did not move from his position when he answered. "You were barely older than Boromir when those same corsairs killed your mother, and perhaps you had lived in blissful ignorance until that time, but I daresay that your sisters had long realised that not everything was as your father told them. Not to mention that the pressure from the East has only increased in the last decades. Osgiliath has been attacked twice in the last five years already. I will not be able to protect them much longer, Imrahil. Not even if I wanted to."

"Perhaps. But I remain with my point that at least we should try to give the boys a childhood worthy of that name. If you send them to Theoden's court so soon after losing their mother, they will be utterly lost." He did not even discuss the option of having another woman care for his nephews. Whatever people said, Denethor had loved his sister as much as she had loved him.

"Will you take him with you?" Denethor brusquely asked.

"Boromir asked me if I would. He reminded me that we had agreed to make him a page at father's court…" he hesitated. "You know they would both be welcome in Dol Amroth, but what about you? How would you go on without them?"

"I will manage. I have more than enough work here."

It was precisely what Imrahil had feared he would say, and he knew in that moment that he would not take the boys with him. For the sake of Denethor, for the sake of Gondor, which needed its ruler to be hale and whole and alert in these precarious times, he would not. "We have plenty of time to discuss this further, I will stay until midsummer, if you will have me."

Now Denethor looked truly surprised, "and Niluphel and Elphir?"

"They will understand. You need me more now. If only to help you carry the burden of _that_." He nodded at the threatening tower in the East. "How _are_ things in Osgiliath?"

"The last attack was just after summer, we managed to hold the city for now."

"Good to hear that." Imrahil stifled a yawn. "You know, we should continue this talk tomorrow. It's getting late, and I have had a very long day. We will find a way, Denethor. We will."

"Perhaps."

He once again squeezed the steward's shoulder, but did not disagree with the sentiment. There were no certainties anymore, and sometimes it felt like they were only delaying the inevitable.

Once in his room, he opened the drawer of his closet to stow away his scarce belongings. Inside he found a swan-shaped silver brooch, one that was used to fasten a mantle. It had been a gift from him to Finduílas on her wedding day. The swan's eye set with such a clear blue gem, that it almost seemed grey, as her eyes had been. There was no note, no explanation on why this particular jewel was found here in the rooms that had been his for so long, but he knew she must have left it here for him when she knew she was dying.

Silent tears flowed over his cheeks as he finally allowed himself to grieve. For his sister, for her two young children who had already lost so much, for his brother-in-law who seemed to have forsaken all hope.


End file.
